


Ever Dream

by wamblytomato



Category: The Wicked Years Series - Gregory Maguire, Wicked - All Media Types
Genre: Also: happens long after Elphaba's left, Angst, F/F, Forgive Me, Gelphie? It's actually only Glinda thinking, Heavens I don't know what I'm doing, Here's what listening to Ever Dream while thinking of your OTP leads to, I guess it could be cathegorised as, In case you've not gathered yet: it's pain, It leads to pain, It's also the very first thing I post so yeah, That would make me very happy and also it would make this a lot easier, There should be a new cathegory that's just called "pain", nothing else, this is sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 04:09:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5770762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wamblytomato/pseuds/wamblytomato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Lady Glinda had a bad night, a night of shakes and regret and pain: she guessed it was the early signs of gout from her rich diet. But she sat up half the night and lit a candle in a window, for reasons she couldn't articulate.”<br/>Here's my take on that night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ever Dream

**Author's Note:**

> The song is by Nightwish. The only thing I own that you're going to see here is my pain. And I have plenty to share.  
> I fought with myself a lot before choosing to post this. And I mean A LOT. Forgive me for the mistakes you will find. Those are mine as well.

×

The wooden floor was cold.

It took her a few seconds to recollect her scrambling thoughts, her mind still hazy after being so suddenly drawn from the dreaming realm. She rubbed her tired eyes, then let her gaze wander to the glass on the other side of her room.

No.

That was not _her_ room. It had not been for a long time.

She rose to her feet, her pace calm and spontaneous – instinctive, almost. She reached the window and stilled once in front of it, the gentle light of faraway stars reclaiming her face from shadows.

Such a clear sky there was, that night. It was late enough for the city lights to have dimmed considerably, thus ceasing the vain clash against those fireflies up high. She wished she could see the reflection of the unblemished vault on the quivering surface of the sea, with all of its white sparks and flakes dancing among the waves.

It was warm in the room.

Not excessively, no. It was pleasant. It certainly had been no reason for her to wake up in the middle of the night, and certainly the room would not be as pleasantly warm were the window to be opened.

That is what she did next. Her fingers quickly unsecured the latch and pushed the frame upwards, as the cold breeze harshly caressed the bare skin of her neck and shoulders. She closed her eyes, breathed in deeply, and wished she could perceive the scent of old, dry ink, and of sheets witnesses of centuries. She wished she could hear the faint crackling of a page being delicately turned by hands that worshipped parchment and quill.

She wished she could go back. Go back to what seemed eons ago, when she had made the most important decision of her existence.

And chosen wrong.

She wished she had left. She wished she had taken that hand. Just once, once would have been enough. Once would have been all that was needed.

How many things could a person wish for?

She shivered.

Her left hand reached for smooth wax, pulling it closer, lowering it to the windowsill. With trembling fingers, she lit a match first, then the candle. A flickering flame dancing in the wind, struggling against its foe in order to compete against those beams gleaming from much higher.

She sank to her knees, her elbows resting on the frame, her knuckles beneath her chin. Her gaze never straying from the dark horizon.

She wondered why. Why she had awoken. Why she had felt the urge to escape from her blankets. Why she had remembered. Why she had turned on the light. Why, why, why. Why she had started crying.

A droplet fell on the dark wood.

She knew why. Why she had awoken. Why she had felt the urge to escape from her blankets. Why she had remembered. Why she had turned on the light. Why, why, why. Why she had started crying.

Another droplet fell on the dark wood.

She brushed away the tears, almost angrily, and got back up. She lowered her head to blow away the flames, but then hesitated, pondered, decided against it. There was no reason to.

She did not close the window, nor move away. Her fingers grasped the windowsill, paled due to the strength of their grip. Her eyes ran once again to the empty skyline. Westwards. They still kept following the same instructions. They still kept wishing.

She sighed.

She still kept wishing.

Hoping.

Dreaming.

The faint spark of the candle danced on tears she did not bother to dry any longer.

 

_«And yet I wonder, do you ever dream of me?»_


End file.
